


"I Love to Hear You Call My Name; Tell Me, Baby, That You Feel the Same"

by attheendoftheday



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheendoftheday/pseuds/attheendoftheday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus teaches Greek and is totally not in love with Achilles, the new music teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I Love to Hear You Call My Name; Tell Me, Baby, That You Feel the Same"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Patrochilles fic, so tell me what you think!  
> (Title from "Baby I Love You" by Andy Kim.)

Patroclus doesn't think he's a particularly absent-minded person. He may not be the smartest or the fastest, but there's a certain skill and level of patience required to memorize all tenses and genders of Greek verbs and then transport that knowledge into teenagers' brains.

Unfortunately, this attentiveness does not extend itself to staff meetings.

Principal Agamemnon could be discussing the existence of aliens for all Patroclus knows. Looking to his left, he sees Briseis, looking like the perfect image of a competent secretary as she takes notes on the minutes. However, as they exchange a glance, Patroclus has to stifle a laugh as she rolls her eyes, looking as done as he feels.

A small movement across the table catches his eye and he looks toward it. Achilles is brushing his slightly too long hair away from his face, eyes trained on Patroclus.

Patroclus wills himself not to blush. He blinks, and Achilles is still staring, grinning toothily. Patroclus smiles back.

He doesn't know when he became so aware of the music teacher's every movement. The day they met wasn't the best - it was a Monday morning after a brutal night of grading, Patroclus blearily fumbling for the coffee maker in the teacher's lounge. He had sat down at one of the tables, fully prepared to sit and exchange long-suffering glances with Briseis in silence, when the door opened and a loud voice filled the room.

"Hello, I’m Achilles Pelides, the new music teacher." Patroclus had known that the old music head had moved, and was expecting another balding, slightly paunchy old man to take his place. He almost spit out a particularly scalding sip of coffee when he looked up and saw the tall, blond, athletic man in front of him.

"Mr. Menoitiades," Patroclus said, sticking his hand out and feeling slightly off balance, even though he was sitting. "Patroclus. I'm the Greek teacher."

Achilles had smiled and shaken his hand firmly. "Nice to meet you." His eyes shifted to land on Briseis, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest.

"Good morning to you as well," he said. Briseis nodded and smiled briefly.

Patroclus watched from behind his mug as Achilles fixed himself a cup of coffee, nodded at the two of them, and left.

Patroclus was silent, looking down at his coffee and back to the door several times. He had looked at Briseis, who said nothing, but raised one finely plucked eyebrow and took a deep drag from her stylishly long cigarette holder, and, well. That had been that.

Over the next several months it had only gotten worse. Every time they were in the same room, Patroclus began to feel increasingly on edge. It was only made harder by the fact that Achilles seemed absolutely determined to become friends with Patroclus, smiling at him all the time and talking whenever they had a chance. Patroclus enjoys his company, and manages not to embarrass himself too much, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand the itching under his skin.

After the meeting comes to an end, Patroclus returns to his classroom to pack his bag, thankful that it’s finally Friday. He’s not exactly looking forwards to the weekend alone, watching reruns of Leave It to Beaver or something equally dull on his small TV. It gives him an excuse to lounge around in his robe and slippers for two days, though, so he doesn’t really mind.

That night Patroclus goes home, tries not to stare at his silent telephone, and resolutely does not think about tall men with green eyes.

Come Monday morning, Patroclus drags himself out of bed and into his car, breathing onto his hands to warm them in the chilly morning air.

That day is particularly draining, the students not concentrating at all on declining nouns. While Patroclus can’t exactly blame them, it doesn’t make him any less frustrated. He discreetly pinches the bridge of his nose and does some deep breathing, and manages to make it the last hour of the day. He has the period free, so he breathes a sigh of relief and makes his way to the teacher’s lounge for another cup of coffee.

He doesn’t notice anyone else enter the room until someone sits besides him on the couch. He startles, nearly spilling coffee onto the stack of homework in his lap. He looks up and sees Achilles, his just-too-long hair falling across his forehead.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Patroclus says. He’s aiming for cheerful, but even he can hear how tired he is.

“Rough day?” Achilles asks sympathetically, leaning back on the couch. Patroclus does not look at his lean, long torso. It’s fine.

“For some reason I always expect them to be more focused on Mondays, but they never are,” he sighs. Achilles laughs.

“It’s the same for me,” he says, gesturing in the air. “They forget how to read sheet music on Monday, and on Friday I have to keep them from beating each other over the head with tubas.”

Patroclus snorts and is met by a sudden wave of affection. He can’t think of anything he’d rather do than stay here forever and listen to Achilles talk with his hands.

He swallows hard and moves to gather his things.

“I should probably go back to my room, see if any kids have stopped by,” he says, and hopes Achilles will let it be.

The other man looks slightly confused but doesn’t question Patroclus further.

“Alright, well - I hope your day gets better from here,” he says, and Patroclus can’t help but smile in response. Before he reaches the door, however, he hears Achilles’s voice behind him.

“Oh, I forgot - on Friday the staff is going to be meeting in my room about the West hall leak. Will you be there?”

Patroclus turns to see Achilles standing, eyebrows raised hopefully. He feels a (slightly painful) lurch in his stomach and nods, leaving before he does something embarrassing.

Patroclus is not going to risk everything, not again. No matter how pretty his mouth is.

The next four days pass too quickly or too slowly, depending on how Patroclus is feeling in that moment. He forgets about the meeting in Achilles room until he sees a notice in the teacher’s lounge Friday morning. 

He’s restless the whole day and feels slightly ridiculous about it. As he sits at his desk, hand hovering over a stack of grading, he reminds himself that he has nothing to be afraid of, you can do this, it’s a conference on water leakage of all things.

Regardless of his mental preparation, he still feels apprehensive when he walks into the Arts wing at the end of the day. He takes a steadying breath and enters the room.

He’s not early, thankfully. Half of the staff are already settled. He sits down, halfheartedly smiling at his coworkers and wishing that Briseis was with him and not doing . . . whatever it is that secretaries do. 

Once the remaining staff reluctantly trickle in through the door, Achilles stands and scans the room, smiling briefly at Patroclus. He feels himself blush and settles in for forty-five minutes of boredom.

It’s not as bad as he had expected, even though it’s about as interesting as a staff meeting can be. Patroclus blocks out most of the discussion, eyes trained on the way Achilles moves. Patroclus was already familiar with Achilles’s appearance, but he can’t help focusing on the graceful twist of his torso and the strong lines of his calf muscles underneath his slacks.

Around the twenty minute mark, Patroclus feels eyes on him. He looks up to see Achilles smiling in his direction, gesturing at a diagram of the school floor plan on the blackboard that Patroclus had completely ignored. Patroclus blinks twice and smiles back, before quickly looking down at his shoes underneath the desk.

He concentrates on the floor for the rest of the meeting, only looking up when he raises his hand to vote on something-or-other. He should probably pay more attention, but he figures that as long as his room doesn’t become flooded he would be fine.

Once the meeting ends, Patroclus stands up and begins to fiddle with his tie while the others pack up. He’s not sure why he’s stalling (that’s a lie) or if it’s a good idea to stay and look like an idiot while everyone else leaves (it’s probably not). When only a few stragglers are left, Patroclus decides that he’s wasted enough time. He turns to go, but is stopped by Achilles’s hand on his shoulder.

“Would you mind keeping me company while I get everything put together?” he asks, with that familiar hopeful twist to his mouth.

“Not at all,” Patroclus says, smiling, but his stomach rolls in a way that could be pleasant or unpleasant. He sits in one of the chairs, feeling much like a student himself.

“How does a music teacher end up dealing with a water leak?” Patroclus asks, looking around at the instruments hidden in corners and hanging on the wall. It’s not the first time that Patroclus has been in Achilles’s room, but he’s always fascinated by the amount of things in every section. It’s a far cry from the tidy Greek classroom, plain except for a handful of posters stuck on the wall.

“The leak just so happens to be in one of the practice rooms,” Achilles sighs, organizing the paperwork from the meeting. “That, unfortunately, is my domain. I could get someone actually qualified to do it, but they’d probably mess everything up.” He sounds so long suffering that Patroclus has to laugh. Achilles glances up at him and smiles. “At least nothing was damaged too badly - that means paperwork and insurance and everything else that I am not willing to do.”

Patroclus watches as Achilles shuffles papers on his desk, waiting to see if he will say anything more.Achilles stays silent and Patroclus stands, twisting his body to look more closely at the instruments around him.

“What can you play?” Patroclus asks. He turns back around to find Achilles already looking at him, leaning back against his desk.

“At least a little bit of every instrument in here,” Achilles says. He rubs the back of his neck, but his tone hints at more than a little bit of pride. “But my favorite is the lyre.” 

He gestures to the corner, and Patroclus can’t believe that he hadn’t noticed the large, wooden instrument on the shelf in the corner. Although it looks well played and old, the wood is shiny and free of dust. He can imagine Achilles playing it, his arms working to hold it up, strong fingers plucking at the strings.

“You can touch it,” Achilles says, sounding amused. He had joined Patroclus next to the shelves, body heat warming the space around him. Patroclus drops his hand from where it had been hovering above the lyre.

“I’ll leave that to you,” he says, laughing.

“Do you want to see me play?” Achilles asks. His face is serious, but his eyes show a playful eagerness not unlike the boys in Patroclus’s classes.

Patroclus nods, and leans against one of the filing cabinets. Achilles pulls over a chair from behind his desk and settles down with the lyre, holding it delicately.

He begins to play, and it’s like he transforms. His forehead smoothes and his eyes close, but he bites his bottom lip almost unconsciously. Patroclus is in awe, focusing on the beautiful sounds coming from the lyre and the peace flowing out of Achilles.

Patroclus pulls over the nearest chair within reach and leaned forward on it, as close to Achilles as he could be. He’s fascinated by the seemingly effortless grace of the music, the way Achilles concentrates on the lyre like it was all that existed in the world.

Achilles finishes with a flourish, pausing with his eyes closed for another moment. When he opens them, they widen for a moment, as if surprised to see Patroclus so close. They crinkle at the corners in a proud smile, seeing how Patroclus had given him his entire attention.

Patroclus blinks, and images of Achilles’s playing and the line of his jaw and his wide smiles and green eyes flicker in his mind all at once, and Patroclus stops thinking.

He leans over and kissed Achilles.

There are no fireworks, no explosions. All he feels is the warm wood of the chair beneath his fingertips and warm wetness of Achilles’s mouth against his own and I want more.

It’s quick, Achilles leaning back in his chair and breaking their mouths apart. Patroclus breathes shallowly, thinking too much to make sense of any one of it. Achilles reaches over and touches his cheek briefly before drawing back.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his face looks slightly flushed, but the sound snaps Patroclus out of his daze. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, suddenly aware of how red his face must be and how silly he looks, slouched over and staring. He stands up abruptly, trying to swallow against the baseball sized lump that feels like it’s been lodged in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I -” he starts, fighting back the urge to say anything that might make this worse. This is a school - anyone could be staying after hours. Achilles could say something, he could lose his job - 

“Don’t -” Patroclus cuts himself off again, fumbling for his briefcase. He walks to the door, risking one look behind him. Achilles is frozen halfway out of his seat, mouth open, and maybe he’s saying something, but Patroclus is already out the door. He gets in his car and looks in both directions, as if there would be somebody watching that knows.

He drives down the highway, past his street, and doesn’t stop until he can breathe and forget about the taste of lips, the waves of anxiety and the memory of disgusted faces.

After pacing around his apartment for hours, his last thought before sleep is of the confused yet hopeful expression on Achilles’s face, so it’s useless, anyway.

Patroclus tries to convince himself that he’s not moping, but he doesn’t do a very good job. He stays in bed most of Saturday, venturing out once or twice for food and to retrieve some papers for grading.

It’s not until late that night that he gets fed up with himself. It’s Saturday. He should be out enjoying himself, with friends or a girl or - anything but what he’s doing right now.

Patroclus puts on his clothes and shoves his feet rather viciously into his shoes. If he can’t have that, he can at least buy a shake at the diner the next street over like an actual adult.

He walks with his hands in his pockets, collar popped, bracing himself against the chill breeze. 

He’s glad to see that the diner is mostly empty, save for a couple of kids messing around with the jukebox. None of them are his students, thank God - he doesn’t really feel like being a professional right now.

Patroclus sits down at the counter and orders, staring down at the black and white checkered floor until the gum-snapping waitress brings over his chocolate shake.

He sips slowly, concentrating on the squeaking of his stool and the peals of laughter coming from the group behind him. He doesn’t notice someone sitting next to him until they clear their throat and touch his arm.

Patroclus turns his head and almost drops his straw when he sees Achilles sitting there, looking like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

Not knowing what to do, Patroclus just stares. Achilles doesn’t look mad, exactly, but he knows, so there has to be something. Patroclus can feel panic rising in his throat.

He thinks that maybe they’re just going to forget about it, pretend like it never happened. It’s the best possibility. He can do that, he thinks.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” Patroclus says, and he tries to keep his voice from shaking.

“I don’t,” Achilles says, and Patroclus can’t tell anything from his voice. “I couldn’t sleep, so I drove. Listen, Patroclus, about yesterday -”

Patroclus doesn’t know what Achilles is about to say, and he’s not sure he wants to find out. He moves to leave, hand reaching for his wallet, but Achilles tightens his grip on his arm.

“Don’t go,” he says, sounding desperate, and Patroclus doesn’t know where this is going. He stays standing for a moment longer, and Achilles stands too, still not letting go of his arm.

Patroclus looks around quickly, seeing that the kids had already left and that they’re the only other customers. He slaps a few dollars on the table, nods at the waitress (who’s looking much more interested in the proceedings than he’s comfortable with), and gestures to the door, trying to swallow the nervous lump forming in his throat.

There’s silence for a moment after they get outside. Patroclus had pulled them into the empty alleyway beside the diner. Achilles opens his mouth to speak, but Patroclus cuts him off.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes, staring determinedly at the empty glass bottle lying several feet away. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking - we were at work, and -”

“Patroclus -” Achilles starts, but Patroclus continues.

“It isn’t - I know you don’t share my . . . preferences, but it doesn’t have to change anything. Just - we won’t speak of it and it never happened, and you never have to speak to me again or even look at me if you don’t want to. Is that okay?” Patroclus steels himself for a punch or a shout or something worse. Instead, Achilles just reaches for his wrists, grabbing hold of them with his own hands.

“Patroclus, I didn’t -” Achilles stops, as if searching for the right words. Patroclus had never seen him nervous before. “I’m not angry, and I didn’t regret it. Patroclus. I wanted it.”

Patroclus can’t breathe.

Achilles must see something in his expression, because he rushes on, voice growing louder than the murmuring from before.

“You don’t know how much I thought about it - I can’t believe you didn’t notice, fuck,” he swears, his eyes wide and trained on Patroclus’s. “I wanted to play for you, to impress you, something. But, God, how could you ever think that I didn’t want you?”

“Why didn’t you ever say it?” Patroclus breathes, certain he’s hallucinating or dreaming or dead.

“Why didn’t you?” Achilles counters, and they’re silent for a moment, sharing frantic breaths in the shadows of the alley.

“We’re in public,” Patroclus says, and he’s not quite sure why he says it. He can’t stop looking from Achilles’s eyes to his mouth and back again, and he almost doesn’t care. “Anyone could see us.”

“Let them see.” Achilles bends down slightly so that their noses are almost touching.

Patroclus wants to kiss him, and touch him, or just keep looking at him forever, but the sound of voices from the main road snap him out of his daze. Their position is already damning, and Patroclus can feel the fear in his chest stir.

“I live close,” he says, looking up at Achilles from under his eyelashes and tries not to sound as excited as he feels. “If you want to, we can - I mean - come home with me. Please.”

Achilles doesn’t say anything, but drops his wrists and moves toward the entrance. For a wild second Patroclus thinks that he’s going to leave, but he stops at the corner of the building and gestures for Patroclus to lead the way.

They’re silent on the walk back, but Patroclus can feel the anticipation in the air between them, building exponentially every time their shoulders brush.

Patroclus fumbles for his keys when they reach his door, his fingers feeling numb. Achilles nudges his shoulder.

“Will anyone say anything?” he asks low into Patroclus’s ear.

“The neighbors are all old. I doubt they’d hear it if the Russians dropped the bomb on us,” Patroclus says, but he’s not focusing on the words, too busy wondering when Achilles had said something like that before, how many times he’s done this, who he’s done this with -

And then he’s not wondering, because the door is locked behind them and Achilles is pressing him against the wall, sucking on his neck, and God, Patroclus cannot believe this is actually happening.

He tells Achilles as much, running his hands up his chest, marvelling at the muscle underneath.

“I didn’t know I could be doing this,” Achilles says, tilting his head to nip at Patroclus’s jaw. “You were always so - God, I would have settled for anything.”

Patroclus’s chuckle turns into a moan as Achilles’s thigh slips between his own. “Bedroom’s this way,” he says, pulling away and leading Achilles down the hall.

They fall onto the bed, Achilles reaching under Patroclus’s shirt to trail his fingers along the waistband of his pants. Patroclus leans back, tugging impatiently on Achilles’s shirt. When Achilles finally takes it off he takes a moment to appreciate the lean muscle underneath. He reaches for his belt, but Achilles stops him.

“You first,” he says, and Patroclus can’t help but feel self conscious about his slightly scrawny body as he unbuttons his shirt and wriggles out of his pants. Achilles doesn’t seem to care, staring down at Patroclus before capturing his mouth in another kiss, teeth clacking almost painfully.

Patroclus reaches for Achilles, palming him through his pants. Achilles moans, but stops moving, as if he’s uncertain of how to proceed. Patroclus takes the opportunity to move down to the foot of the bed, sliding off Achilles’s pants and briefs.

Patroclus moves up, kissing Achilles’s inner thigh. He looks up, silently asking permission, and takes the way that Achilles pulls on his hair as a yes.

Patroclus doesn’t waste any time, taking all of Achilles into his mouth. He closes his eyes as he falls into the rhythm that he’d almost forgotten. He’s missed this. He hears Achilles curse under his breath and opens his eyes to look up at him, shaking underneath him.

It doesn’t take long, Achilles shoving his hand into his mouth to keep silent as he spills into Patroclus’s mouth. Patroclus savors the taste for a moment before he leans back, looking down at Achilles.

Their eyes meet, and Achilles looks flushed and spent, sprawled across the mattress. Patroclus unthinkingly licks his lips, and Achilles groans, reaching for him.

“You now, it’s your turn,” he mumbles before biting on Patroclus’s jaw, sliding his hand down to his waist.

He barely wraps a hand around Patroclus before he’s coming, panting into Achilles’s shoulder.

They rest like that for a moment, both coming down from their highs. Patroclus’s toes feel numb, but his skin is burning and sweaty where it touches Achilles’. Eventually he gets up and gets a washcloth to clean them up, feeling absurdly self conscious about his naked body, as if Achilles was a stranger and not lying just as naked on his bed.

They lie side by side, arms touching. Achilles reaches over to his pants on the floor and procures a cigarette and lighter from one of the pockets.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Patroclus says as Achilles lights the cig.

“Only after I get off.” He smiles and takes a drag.

Patroclus watches him for a moment, and leans over to kiss him, tasting the smoke on his tongue.

They pull back, and Achilles smiles lazily, fingers resting on Patroclus’s wrist.

“I’ve never done that before,” Achilles mumbles around his cigarette. He glances over to see Patroclus staring at him. “I mean, I’m not a virgin,” he says, sounding amused and embarrassed at the same time. “I’ve been with girls. I just - I didn’t like it. It’s never been like this.”

Patroclus rolls over to stare at the ceiling. He wasn’t Achilles’s first ever, but he was a first, and that matters.

“I have,” Patroclus says. Honesty deserves honesty. Achilles looks at him, and Patroclus imagines a cartoon question mark above his head. “You know, with another boy. A while ago. I think I might have been a little in love with him, too.”

He can hear Achilles’s breathing against his ear. “What happened?”

“We got caught,” Patroclus says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound as bitter as he thinks he does. He rubs a hand over his face. “It wasn’t - shit. There’s a reason my parents don’t speak to me anymore, you know?”

Achilles hand tightens around Patroclus’s wrist, fingers stroking the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Patroclus leans his head against Achilles’s shoulder. “We were just kids. And the worst part wasn’t even - you know what the worst part was?” Achilles shakes his head. “He just lied about it, said it was the first time, that I was forcing myself on him when they came in. I couldn’t, I don’t know if I was too stupid or what. And I can’t blame him, either.”

Achilles stubs out his cigarette on something (it better not be his bedside table) and rolls on top of Patroclus, supporting himself on his arms to keep his full weight off of him.

“Yes, you can,” he says. “You can absolutely blame him. You’re braver than he could ever dream of being.” He pauses for a second. “That won’t happen with us. This isn’t an experiment. I’ll protect you.”

Patroclus looks up at the golden man above him and thinks that Achilles has no idea what he’s getting into.

“I trust you,” he says instead, because it’s the truth. Achilles’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he leans down to kiss him again.

Patroclus sighs into it, but it’s only a few moments before they both burst into giggles for no reason, Achilles almost falling off the bed.

Once they calm down, they stay silent. Patroclus can feel Achilles’s breathing slow, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slower and he fades into sleep. Patroclus feels mildly creepy for watching Achilles sleep, but mostly he can’t believe that this is his life.

He wants to wake Achilles up just to kiss him again, or maybe call his mother and see if she picks up, or maybe even steal some of the cigs lying on the bedside table, or maybe drive off alone in his car to a place he’s never been before.

Mostly, though, he just wants to curl up into Achilles’s side and sleep, so he does.


End file.
